The dawn broke over the wrecked ship, morning mist clung to the river like a shroud. Armin stirred, his small body curled against the moss-slick mast. His head throbbed, a dull echo of the chaos in the dome, but his body felt unnervingly vital—no hunger, no thirst, just that strange warmth pulsing through his veins, knitting his exhaustion away. He blinked, the forest's oppressive silence ever present, broken only by the distant rush of the turbulent river, but he didn't wake up alone.
Through holes in the ship he could see them. Eyes glinted in the half-light, peering from behind smooth wooden masks, their only feature two holes through which they were watching him. The figures were humanoid but alien, their forms etched with bark-like skin and sprouting tendrils of moss or vine, as if the forest itself had shaped them. They gripped spears and bows of wood, their surfaces pulsing with faint runes ingrained into the surface. Armin's pulse spiked, his childlike hands tightening around a rusted nail he'd scavenged in the night, a futile weapon against these creatures. 'looks like my situation just turned more hopeless. These savages look ready to sacrifice me to whatever they worship. It's probably them who I saw yesterday', his mind flashing to the shadows that had dogged him through the forest. 'Did they watch me sleep? Damn creeps. Those skeletons on the ship—their work? Am I next?'
He scanned the figures, counting six, their postures disciplined, like soldiers on a mission. No drawn weapons, but their unblinking gazes weighed him, as if probing for something. His gaze darted to the river, its dark current barred escape, too fierce to swim to the other side. Cornered in a three-year-old's body, in a world that made no sense, Armin's options were grim. 'They could've killed me already. Why haven't they? Let's not panic, I have no way out from here, why am I assuming the worst anyways? They might look like the type of people to impale me on the hull of a ship, but I have nothing to lose at this point, could at least try a friendly greeting'
"Hey there," he called, forcing a grin that felt more like a grimace, his voice cracking from anxiety. He raised a hand, waving slowly, a fleeting memory of a cartoon penguin flashing through his mind—smile and wave, just smile and wave boys. "Any chance you know the way to civilization?" The words felt absurd, swallowed by the forest's weight, but diplomacy had saved deals before; maybe it could save him now.
To his surprise, the tallest figure—a lean creature, its bark-like skin etched with glowing veins—raised a clawed hand, beckoning sharply. He hesitated, his grip on the nail tightening, but their weapons remained lowered. 'Not hostile yet. But not friendly either.' He descended the mast, his small legs trembling not from fatigue but from the adrenaline flooding his system.
Halfway down, the tall figure shifted, gripping its spear. Armin froze, his heart skipping a beat as the creature's arm snapped forward. The spear didn't fly—instead, the wood grew, twisting and stretching like a living thing, its tip surging toward the ship with a crack. It slammed into the hull below Armin, quivering, its runes flaring briefly. "WTF MAN!" Armin shouted, his voice shrill, nearly losing his grip as the ship groaned under the impact. The figure ignored him, gesturing to get closer again, its masked face unreadable. The others watched, their postures a mix of vigilance and curiosity.
Armin's mind raced. 'Some type of wood Magic.' He'd seen runes before, in the dome, their power tearing him through space. This was different, organic, tied to the spear itself. 'They're not complete savages. They seem trained.' Cautiously, he stepped onto the spear's shaft, expecting it to buckle. Instead, it pulsed, tendrils of wood coiling around his ankles, gentle yet firm, retracting smoothly to lower him to the riverbank. The wet sand squelched under his toes. The tribesmen closed in, setting a tight formation around him.
They motioned him forward, their movements disciplined. 'Let's hope that wherever they lead me I'll be able to get some answers.' Armin walked, flanked by the group, his small frame dwarfed by their towering forms. The forest swallowed them, the canopy above blotting out the sun. He strained to catch any sign of their intent—their silence offered no clues—prisoner or guest?—only the soft rustle of their vine-woven cloaks and the clink of small bone ornaments.
Hours bled together, the forest's weight unbroken by sound or breeze. Armin's legs moved tirelessly, his body's resilience holding firm, though his mind screamed for rest. Eventually the leader hissed softly, and the smallest figure hoisted Armin onto its back. He tensed, his trusty nail still clutched in his fist. Their pace increased to inhuman degrees, practically flying through the forest, plant life seemingly bending to the will of this group supporting their every step.
After a while the forest parted abruptly, revealing a sight that stole his breath. A city rose from the forest floor, not built but grown—trees and vines twisted into towering structures, their bark sculpted into arches, walls, and spires. A massive barrier of interwoven trunks encircled it, their branches knitted into a living wall that stretched into the canopy. 'This isn't some tribe of utter backwards savages. This is… organized.'
The squad veered from the main gate—a towering arch of knotted roots—and slipped into a concealed entrance, a narrow crevice beneath a tree's gnarled base. Underground tunnels swallowed them, their walls lined with roots. Luminescent moss clung to the ceiling, just barely lighting their path. 'This looks more like a fortress, not just a village.'
The tunnel sloped upward, opening into a spiral staircase carved into the heart of a massive tree, its wood smooth under Armin's bare feet. The ascent was long, the air growing lighter, tinged with the scent of sap and blossoms. Through windows in the bark he glimpsed the city beyond: streets of woven vines, buildings of sculpted wood, their surfaces alive with crawling ivy and blooming flowers. Non-human figures moved below—scaled, feathered, furred—bartering, crafting, or chanting softly around rune-lit altars, though the only human he could spot was himself.
The staircase ended at a long hallway, its walls carved with intricate depictions of beasts and nature. The squad stopped at double doors carved with a sprawling tree cradling a glowing orb. The doors creaked open, revealing a large chamber. A long table of living wood stood at the center, surrounded by figures—some masked, others bare-faced, their features a tapestry of claws, horns, and glowing eyes, their postures rigid with anticipation.
The room fell silent, their eyes locked onto Armin, a mix of hope, skepticism, and fear, the air heavy with unspoken questions. Armin stood, a child in a tattered tunic, his emotional-support-nail clutched like a lifeline, waiting on what fate had in store for him.